‘Gates Foundation. They are like huge, man,’ one banker said to me.
‘I just run a small school they fund,’ I said.
‘I need a Gates Foundation grant. Do they fund bankers who need an apartment in Manhattan?’ said another. Everyone laughed.
I spoke to many of those present, but felt little connection with any of them. I stepped away from the crowd and sat on the sofa. I took out my phone to look at the pictures I had taken during the day. I had taken some inside MSG.
‘You watched a Knicks game?’ I heard Priya’s voice from behind me.
I turned to look at her.
‘Yes, I went today.’
‘Nice pictures. Can I see?’
She sat down next to me. I flipped through the photos.
My phone vibrated. A message from ‘Erica, Tribeca Nation singer’.
‘Checking out the Jazz and Music Fest?’ The message flashed as a notification and disappeared. The phone screen went back to displaying pictures again.
‘Next?’ Priya said as I didn’t touch my phone for a minute.
‘Priya, just a second. I need to send a reply.’
‘Oh, sure, I will get a drink. Not for you, though,’ she smiled, wagging a finger at me. I smiled back.
I composed a message for Erica: I leave Monday. Almost packed. At my farewell party now. Thanks anyway. ☺
She replied: Fly safe. Ciao. ☺
I looked up. I saw Priya engrossed in conversation with someone at the bar.
I shut my phone and placed it in my jacket pocket. I then realized that I was still carrying the brochures Daisy, the old lady, had given me outside Madison Square Garden. I read them one by one.
‘CATS—the longest running Broadway musical,’ said the first.
‘Blue Man Comedy Show—combining music, technology and comedy,’ said another.
One of the brochures was a sixteen-page thick, A5-sized booklet. It said ‘New York Music and Jazz Festival Weekend’.
The room lights had been dimmed, making it difficult for me to read the text. I shifted my seat closer to a candle on the coffee table. ‘123 performers. 25 venues. 3 days. 1 city,’ it said on the booklet cover.
The booklet opened with a two-page spread of the schedule of performances. It was arranged in three tables, one each for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Each table had rows for the various time slots. The columns had the names of the singer, the venue and the kind of music and ticket prices. The next two pages had details of each venue. The remaining pages had a brief description of each singer, over a hundred of them. I read the first one:
Abigail—Grew up in Boston, degree in jazz music. Started out as a gospel singer. After singing in Boston for two years, she moved to New York. Boston Globe called her voice ‘smooth velvet’ that can ‘calm your soul’.
I went through the names, mostly to pass time. I didn’t really belong in my own party.
I skimmed through all the descriptions in the alphabetical list. I ignored all the male singers. Twenty minutes later, I reached the letter R.
Ray—A ‘sparkling new voice on the NY scene’ according to the Village Voice, Ray would rather talk about ‘where she is going’ than ‘where she comes from’. This tall exotic beauty ‘sings as good as she looks’ according to the Daily News.
I stopped at Ray’s description. I read it thrice. I flipped back to the schedule to see Ray’s line-up. I looked under Saturday, which was today. My index finger ran down the schedule page.
‘Blues, Soul and Contemporary, 10.00 p.m.–12.00 a.m. Stephanie, Roger and Ray, Café Wha?, $8 entry, two drinks minimum.’
I turned the page to look up the details of Café Wha? and strained hard to read the tiny print.
Café Wha? An old classic New York bar where many legends have performed in their struggling days. Mexican and American food options. 115 MacDougal Street, West Village. Subway 4, 5, 6. Bleecker Street F, West 4th Street.
‘What are you doing, bro?’ Shailesh squeezed my shoulder hard.
‘Huh?’ I said, startled.
‘It’s your party. What the hell are you reading?’
I put the brochure aside and smiled.
‘Nothing. Just some touristy stuff,’ I said.
‘You’re not drinking?’ he said. He tapped his thigh in time with the music.
‘No. You know me and alcohol.’
‘I can handle you at home. Wait, let me get a drink for you.’
Shailesh went to the bar. I checked the time on my phone. It said 11.05 p.m.
I googled Café Wha?’s number and called them.
They took thirty seconds to pick up. It seemed like an hour.
‘Hello. Café Wha?’ I heard a cheerful male voice, barely audible due to the music in the background.
‘Hi, I am interested in the Music and Jazz Fest performance tonight.’
‘Yes, it’s on now, sir. It’s an eight-dollar cover charge. Two drinks minimum,’ the person on the other side recited his rehearsed stuff.
‘I wanted to know if there is a singer called Ray performing tonight?’
‘Well, let me see. Yes, we have three singers. Hers is the last act. Should be on any time now. Sir, I need to hang up. It’s really busy here tonight, and I am one of the very few servers.’
‘Sorry, just one question. Is she there? Can you see her?’
‘Huh?’ the server said, confused. ‘Well, I do see the singers near the stage. I think she is there.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Sorry, sir, I hate to be rude but you want me to take your name down for reservations or something? Can’t help you with much else.’
‘Yes, just one last thing. Does she look Indian? It’s really important. Please.’
‘Hold on,’ the server said.
Shailesh came up to me as I was on hold. He gave me a glass of champagne. I gestured a thanks to him. He gave me a puzzled look, wondering who I was calling at this time.
The wait seemed endless.
‘Nothing, it is the travel agency who booked my return tickets,’ I whispered to Shailesh, making up whatever I could on the spot.
‘This late?’ he said, surprised. I shrugged and excused myself to step aside.
‘Sir? You there?’ The man was back.
‘Yes, yes. I am.’
‘She’s definitely not Caucasian white. She isn’t black either. She could be Indian. Or I don’t know, she’s quite light-coloured, so maybe Spanish or mixed-race. Sorry, I can’t. . .’
I interrupted him.
‘Thanks. That’s enough. I’m coming down. Can you hold a place for one? I’m Madhav.’
‘Maad-what?’
‘Just put me down as M. I’m coming.’
‘You better be here soon. The acts end at midnight.’
Shailesh stood right in front of me.
‘All okay with your ticket?’ he said.
‘Yeah. It’s fine,’ I said and paused before I spoke again. ‘Shailesh, I need to get out.’
‘Wha. . .?’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That’s where I need to go.’
‘Where?’
‘I need to get some fresh air.’
‘Have you seen the snow outside? Where are you going?’
He pointed to his balcony. Blobs of snow covered the ledge. Outside his apartment, a steady stream of snowflakes shot down from the night sky.
‘I have a jacket,’ I said.
Shailesh looked bewildered by my sudden desire for a night stroll.
‘Madhav, what do I tell the guests?’ he said.
‘They will barely notice,’ I said and left.
44
I stepped out of the apartment building. Cold winds slashed at my face. My phone showed the time as 11.12 p.m. and a temperature of 20 degrees Fahrenheit, or -6.6 degrees Celsius. People were all bundled up in gloves, caps and jackets. I saw a group of four friends walk towards the 86th Street subway ahead of me.
Fresh snow had made the pavements powde
ry and white. The group of four and I reached the subway stop. We took the steps down to the metro. Some African-Americans were coming up the steps.
‘It’s not coming, woo hoo, no train tonight. . .’ said one of them in a drunk voice.
‘How am I going to get my ass to Brooklyn?’ his friend said.
‘A hundred-dollar cab ride, baby. That ass deserves it,’ another friend said. They all laughed.
I reached the customer services counter. A plump African-American lady from the Metropolitan Transit Authority, or MTA, sat inside. She made an announcement into a microphone.
‘Ladies and gentleman, due to heavy snow, we are experiencing huge delays on all lines. A train is stalled in the network near Grand Central. We are trying to remedy the problem. We suggest alternative travel arrangements.’
I checked the station clock: 11.19 p.m.
Google Maps suggested the subway would have taken me to Bleecker Street in seventeen minutes. From there, it was a nine-minute walk to the café.
‘How much delay?’ I asked the customer service officer.
‘Who knows, honey,’ she said. ‘It’s snow. Half an hour, an hour, two hours. Take your pick.’
I ran up the steps and came out of the station. Cold air sneaked in under the jacket’s collar and down my neck. The road had little traffic. I waited but no empty cab went past.
I asked a passer-by, ‘I need to go to the West Village urgently. Where can I get a cab?’
‘Want one myself.’
I checked the time: 11.25 p.m.
‘Walk west to Fifth Avenue. You will hit Central Park. Try there,’ someone said.
I took rapid strides to Fifth Avenue. I reached the periphery of Central Park, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Amber lights lit up the museum building. The falling snowflakes created a soft-focus effect.
Time: 11.31 p.m.
If I didn’t get a cab, I would not be able to reach West Village before midnight. I couldn’t see any cabs. I looked up at the sky to pray. Snowflakes fell on my face.
God, please, please, I said.
I looked around me. At least six more people waited for cabs. My heart sank. I wanted to cry.
One cab, please, I said, waiting for magic to happen.
No cabs.
Time: 11.34 p.m.
I reopened Google Maps. I checked the distance from my current location at the Met Museum to Café Wha? and chose the pedestrian option.
It displayed this: Walk 4.0 mi, 1h 10min
The route was simple. I had to go straight down south on Fifth Avenue for 3.8 of the 4 miles, and then turn right.
‘Four miles. 6.4 kilometres,’ I mumbled to myself.
An hour and ten minutes to walk, I thought. If I ran, it would be less. If I ran like a mad dog with a pack of wolves chasing it, even lesser.
‘Madhav Jha,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Run.’
I remembered basketball. We used to run and dribble on court all the time.
A basketball court is not the same as six-and-a-half kilometres in minus six degrees temperature, my sensible mind scoffed.
‘Don’t think. Don’t listen to sense. Just run,’ I told myself and took off.
I ran so fast my surroundings became hazy. Central Park on my right and posh Upper East Side homes on my left whizzed past. My face became numb in the cold air. The jacket began to feel heavy as snow started to seep inside.
I had already spent the entire day walking, whether it was for shopping, walking over to Madison Square Garden or back to Shailesh’s home. I had not eaten much all day either. My legs began to hurt.
‘C’mon Madhav,’ I panted, ‘c’mon.’
Sometimes, when nobody is by your side, you have to become your own cheering squad.
I faked a dribble. It made me go ahead to catch my imaginary ball.
I checked the street sign: 67th Street. Café Wha? was near 4th.
‘Don’t look at street signs. Just run, Madhav,’ I said aloud.
I passed a hotel on my left on 60th Street. It had an Indian flag hanging above the main porch.
‘The Pierre: A Taj Hotel,’ a sign said.
The Indian flag unleashed a fresh wave of energy in me.
‘Run,’ I said to myself. ‘You can do this.’
I reached the most famous part of Fifth Avenue, with designer stores on both sides. Tiffany’s was on 57th Street, Louis Vuitton on 51st. Riya’s journals had mentioned these brands.
On 50th Street, I developed a nasty cramp in my stomach. I had to stop. I sat down in a squat and took a few deep breaths.
Time: 11.44 p.m.
‘Damn. There is no time. Feel the pain later,’ I told myself.
I couldn’t move. I scanned the street for cabs. Nothing. I winced in pain.
On my right, I saw the NBA store. The store was shut. It had a huge poster of Kobe Bryant outside. ‘NBA—where amazing happens,’ it said.
‘C’mon, Madhav. Be amazing.’
I stood up. Without thinking, I started to run again.
My legs and abdomen screamed with pain. My nose felt like ice.
However, my head felt like fire. I ran, almost jumped with every stride, and looked straight ahead. Snow was in my sneakers, turning my feet cold and wet.
‘Run, run, run,’ I whispered with every breath. I reached a dead end at Washington Square Park.
‘I’m close. Right turn from here.’
Time: 11.56 p.m.
I wanted to rest for a minute.
‘No rest,’ I scolded myself.
I turned right and ran.
The noise of music and the crowd outside made me stop.
‘Café Wha?’ The lit-up sign greeted me with its bright yellow letters. I pumped my fists.
45
I plonked my elbows on the usher’s desk outside. I tried to speak. Snow fell out of my mouth.
‘M,’ I gasped. ‘I booked a place for Mr M.’
I bent to cough. As my body shook, bits of snow fell off me.
‘Easy there, M. Are you all right?’
I nodded.
‘Your lips are purple. They may fall off, buddy,’ the usher said.
I rubbed my hands and placed them on my mouth. Cold hands did little to warm up an even colder face.
The usher went through his register.
‘Mr M, yes. But the show is almost ending. It’s midnight. Last song probably.’
Time: 12.01 a.m.
‘The singer is still there, right?’ I said, still huffing and puffing as I spoke.
‘Huh? Yeah, maybe just doing a bonus song or something. Entry is eight dollars, two drinks minimum. You sure?’
I slapped a twenty-dollar bill on his desk and walked in. I reached the bar area.
‘Your two drinks, sir?’ said a female bartender.
‘Water and water.’
She gave me two bottles of water. I chugged them down in a flash.
‘Where is the performance?’ I said.
‘Straight left to the concert area. Follow the music.’
I limped ahead. My legs had given way. I held on to bar stools and chairs to keep myself from falling.
The concert area was a dimly lit room filled with people. The crowd in front of me prevented me from seeing the stage.
I elbowed my way through the hordes of people to get ahead.
I heard a female voice.
‘You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful, it’s true.’
The bright spotlight on the stage contrasted with the dark room. It took a few seconds to spot the singer.
It was her.
Riya.
The water bottle fell from my hand.
She sang with her eyes closed, completely engrossed in the song. In a full-length, sequined black gown she looked more beautiful than what even God would define as beautiful.
Yes, Riya Somani, I found you.
She held an acoustic guitar in her hand. A male American pianist accompanied her on stage.
She continued to sing.
‘I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don’t know what to do,
’Cause I’ll never be with you.’
My tiredness evaporated. No more aches and pain. Blood flowed through my body again. My face felt flushed and hot compared to the freezing cold a minute ago.
She sang from her heart. The crowd loved her and cheered. She opened her eyes between lines and smiled at the crowd’s reaction. She had not seen me yet.
I removed my jacket and put it on a table. I walked right up ahead to the stage and stood before her.
‘You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful, it’s. . .’
Her voice vanished as her eyes met mine. The pianist looked at her surprised, wondering why she had missed her lines.
Riya stood up. The guitar looked unsteady in her hand.
The pianist filled the gaps with an instrumental interlude.
Riya put her guitar aside slowly. I continued to look at her.
We stood before each other, silent and frozen. The crowd began to murmur, wondering what was happening.
The pianist figured something was amiss. He took the mic and continued the song.
‘You’re beautiful, it’s true.’
I just kept looking at her.
What all you made me go through, Riya Somani, my eyes said.
I’m sorry, her eyes said to me. A tear ran down her cheek. Mine too.
I thought I would have so much to say to her when I finally met her. I had mentally rehearsed it many times. I would be angry at first. I would shout, tell her how much she had put me through. I would then tell her what she meant to me. How I was not that jerk, Rohan. Or that others may have let her down, but I wouldn’t. And that my mother could only be happy if I was. I had my speech all planned. However, neither of us said a word.
We just looked at each other and cried, and cried. After some time she stepped forward. That is all Riya Somani does. She gives you a little clue she is ready. You just need to be alert enough to pick it up. I opened my arms. They shook as she came closer. I took her in my arms.
‘I. . . I’m sorry. . .’ she said.
‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Remember you placed a condition last time? No questions asked twice. I have one now.’
‘What?’ she said in the softest whisper.